The Visitor
by Geek for God
Summary: A strange person shows up at 221B. No slash.


**So, this story takes place sometime after "The Hounds of Baskerville" in Sherlock and the sixth season of Doctor Who, but there aren't any spoilers. Well, any _big_ spoilers. Well, any life-changing spoilers.**

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the infamous Doctor or the wonderful Watson. Or their shows.**

* * *

John sighed contentedly as he plopped himself into his armchair, a teacup in his hand. He leaned back in the chair, relishing in the absolute silence and stillness of the flat. Sherlock was gone, helping Lestrade on a case that he'd claimed was "mediocre and dull", but John hadn't missed the gleam of excitement on the detective's face before he'd run out the door. Mrs. Hudson was on vacation, and John was a bit embarrassed to admit that he hadn't the foggiest clue exactly where her vacation spot was.

In other words, it was quiet, and not even Sherlock had a large enough vocabulary to describe how much John was enjoying it.

Until someone knocked on the door.

John closed his eyes and mumbled something incoherently to himself before placing his cup on the coffee table and rising, a bit stiffly, out of his chair. He hadn't even made it halfway down the stairs before whoever it was outside began knocking again. He rolled his eyes. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he shouted in annoyance. The pounding on the door ceased.

John was expecting it to be someone of high importance in the British government, looking for Sherlock Holmes because "Someone seems to have stolen a precious artifact and we need you to find it for us." Or maybe even _the_ British government. So when he opened the door and found the complete opposite of that, it was an understatement to say he was puzzled and slightly shocked.

The tall, young man waiting outside the door was dressed in some of the oddest clothes John had ever seen. He had too-short black suspenders that didn't quite reach his ankles, laced-up brown boots, a brown tweed jacket, and a small red bow tie.

"Hello," the man said, grinning broadly. His thick black bangs were brushed back behind his ear, revealing his inquisitive, intelligent eyes that couldn't seem to find something to rest on. His gaze continuously bounced from John to the stairs and everything in between. "Can I come in?"

"Uh," John began, wondering who the strangely-dressed man was. "Wh-"

"Very gracious of you, thank you," the man said quickly, stepping into 221B. Then he took out a thin, metallic . . . thing (John could almost hear Sherlock's disdainful voice in his head - _"Thing" is not a descriptive noun, John. It tells me absolutely nothing, because it could literally be anything. Now, I could use the process of elimination to determine that "thing" probably does not refer to a large, bloodied chainsaw, but one cannot be certain in this line of work._) out of the pocket of his coat, quickly proceeding to poke it at the walls and furniture of the flat. The end of it gave off a bright green light as it made strange beeping and whirring noises. The man would pause as it did this and hold it up to his face, understanding dawning in his eyes as he would mutter, "Ah, yes, the signal's definitely coming from here," and "Why didn't I locate this sooner?"

"Erm," John tried to get in a word. He wanted to ask who the heck the man thought he was, but another beep from the weird machine distracted him momentarily. "What _is_ that?"

The man, who had been previously crouched down as he peered under the coat rack, leaped to his feet and whirled around to face him. "It's a sonic screwdriver," he said, waving it in front of John's face.

John leaned back from the instrument, a frown on his face. He was beginning to doubt the sanity of this man. "First off," John said, "that is _not_ a screwdriver. It doesn't even remotely look like one. Secondly, there's no such thing as a 'sonic' screwdriver."

The man adopted such a look of sadness John almost wanted to take back his words. "It's okay," the man said, stroking his not-screwdriver and shooting John a scornful look, as if he'd just killed a small child. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

Okay.

Forget "beginning to doubt the sanity of the man" - John was starting to fear for his life. "Did you – did you just talk to that thing?"

The man looked at John, his eyes widening. Then he glanced back down at the machine. "Oh, dear," he said, letting out a sigh. "How long have I been doing that for? Never mind, I don't want to know." Then he grinned. "I've forgotten to ask who you are! Stupid, stupid. What is wrong with me? It must be my age. Is this what getting older does to you? Makes you forget? I don't believe I like it very much." The man, now completely off-topic, rubbed his chin as he mused, "I should do something about that. . . ."

Plans of escape were running through John's head – _can't make it to the front door in time, he could intercept me_ – when the man suddenly clapped his hands together, a look of delight on his face. "Right, so, now that we're properly introduced, could you show me the upstairs?"

John openly gaped at him. "But," he sputtered, "we _haven't_ been properly introduced."

"UGH," the man groaned. "Introductions are so _dull. _I was hoping you wouldn't have noticed me skipping them but, since we're here now, and I suppose that introductions, along with stupid people, are inevitable, I'll give one anyway hello, I'm the Doctor," he said in a rush.

"So that's your name, then?" John asked. "'The Doctor'?"

"Yes! Well, no. Um, kind of. How about I get back to you on that one?" The man leaned forward on the railing as he peered up the stairs. "So _now_ that we're properly introduced, can you take me upstairs?"

John raised his hands up in a helpless gesture. "No, I can't!"

The man turned to look at him. "Why not?"

"Because I don't even _know_ you."

"Yes you do, I just told you. How old are _you_, if you're already forgetting important things like that?"

John rolled his eyes. "There's a difference between knowing someone's name and actually _knowing _them."

"Fine," the man said, letting out an annoyed sigh. Then he rapidly rattled off information. "I'm a Time Lord, I am smarter than you – please, don't take offense at that, it applies to everyone – I have a TARDIS that is currently and always in the shape of a police phone box, I've saved the Earth more times than you've breathed, I have a sonic screwdriver – but you already knew about that, didn't you? - bowties are cool, most people believe I am dead right now – _right now_, such a fun phrase, isn't it? I don't get to use it all that often – apples are complete rubbish, I want to be a ginger. Can you take me upstairs now?" He gave a lopsided grin.

John was, for lack of a better word, speechless. After a pregnant pause, he finally got his mouth to start working. "Wha-"

"Thank you," the man said, nearly knocking John over in his haste to get upstairs.

"Wait, hold on!" John shouted, running after the man. "You can't just barge into people's flats!"

"Yes I can," came the answering call, followed by a tremendous crash. "Oops. Don't worry, I can fix that."

John burst through the door leading to his living room, fully intent on telling "The Doctor" to get out _now_ or he was calling the police. When he saw the state of the living room, however, words failed him. In the three seconds it'd taken John to reach the upstairs, papers had been strewn all over the floor, the wardrobe had toppled over, and the couch cushions had been thrown haphazardly toward the middle of the room. The Doctor was nowhere in sight.

John slowly edged his way into the living room. "Er . . . Doctor?" he asked uncertainly. "Where are you?"

"What is _this_?" Soon after that exclamation, the jar of eyeballs came sailing out of the kitchen and into the living room. John lunged forward, his arms outstretched as he reached for the soon-to-be-broken jar. He didn't catch it, but it bounced off his fingertips, slowing its fall so it didn't shatter when it hit the carpet.

"Interesting," the Doctor's voice continued from the kitchen. "Did I start a fad for owning severed hands?" His head poked around the corner. "You don't happen to be a serial killer, do you? Because that would be awkward for both of us if you were."

Figuring the Doctor must have discovered the various body parts laying on the kitchen table, John attempted to explain. "Um . . . they're my flatmate's?" he tried lamely.

He had just entered the kitchen when he saw the Doctor starting to open the refrigerator. "No, don't -" he started to say, but the Doctor completely ignored his warning and yanked the refrigerator door open.

Contrary to most people's reaction at being confronted with a bodiless head, the Doctor simply stood and stared at it for a while. Then he took out his sonic screwdriver and poked it at the head. When it lit up and made the whirring sounds, he shut the door with a snap. "Not what I'm looking for," he muttered, turning around and heading back into the living room.

"Doctor," John said, following the man. "What _are_ you looking for?" Maybe John could help him find it and _get him out of here._

The Doctor, while studying his sonic screwdriver and walking around the room, answered distractedly, "An object giving off tons and _tons_ of time-energy stuff. A bit complicated – don't want to get into all of the gory details just now." Then he stopped near the fireplace. "And I think I just found it."

When he turned around, John saw that he was holding Sherlock's skull in his hands. "Where did you get this?" the Doctor asked excitedly, examining the object from all angles.

John buried his face in his hands. Just what he needed – another person obsessed with dead things. "It's not mine," he said in a muffled tone of voice. "It's Sherlock's." He looked up to see the Doctor staring at him with an odd expression on his face.

"Sherlock?" he asked slowly. "As in . . . Sherlock Holmes?"

John wrinkled his nose. "You didn't know that?"

The Doctor's mouth twitched, as if he was trying to hold back a smile. "So . . . that makes you John Watson?"

"Yes," John said warily, figuring it would be entirely pointless to lie.

The Doctor suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead. "Oh, of _course_!" he crowed. "221B Baker Street! How did I not make the connection?" Then he got this ridiculous smile on his face and said in a pompous voice, "'You see, but you do not observe.'"

"Yeah," John said. "He says that a lot."

"Undoubtedly he does," the Doctor murmured, peering at the skull with a newfound curiosity and probing it with his sonic screwdriver. "Whose skull is this?"

"I just told you – Sherlock's."

The Doctor cast him the "no, idiot" look he was so used to. "I mean literally – _literally,_ whose skull is this?"

John frowned. "I'm not sure. I never really thought to ask."

The Doctor went back to studying the skull. "Okay, fine. Why do you have it?"

John shrugged. "Apparently Sherlock likes to talk to it."

Suddenly the not-screwdriver gave off a particularly loud beep, and the Doctor, after glancing at it quickly, shouted, "Yes!" Then he ran a hand through his thick black hair, his eyes alight with joy. "It makes so much sense," he breathed, a far-off expression on his face.

John flinched when the Doctor twisted around to face him. "Does the name 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle' mean anything to you?" the Doctor asked.

John searched his memory, but couldn't recall ever hearing that name. "No." Pause. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," the Doctor said off-handedly, turning his intense eyes away from John.

John raised an eyebrow, ready to tell the Doctor that that was complete rubbish, when the other man asked casually, "So, what was your last case about?"

John threw his hands up in the air, an indignant look on his face. "Does _no_ _one_ but Moriarty read my blog?"

"A blog," the Doctor muttered. "That's _brilliant_!"

John waited for him to elaborate, but he never did. He let out a sigh, deciding he didn't want to know why the Doctor found a blog so 'brilliant'. "Our last case was 'The Hounds of Baskerville', I think."

The change that the Doctor went through was so fast John almost missed the transition. His face turned solemn and his eyes lost their bright shine, allowing John to see the layers and layers of sadness hidden in them. He placed his hands on John's shoulders, the skull dangling from one of his fingers by its eye socket, and looked him straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry, John Watson," he whispered softly. "But whatever happens, you _have_ to remain strong."

John was growing more confused by the minute, which was saying a lot, because he'd already started out perplexed. "What does that mean?"

"It _means_ that you can't lose hope."

John wrinkled his brow. "Hope in _what_?"

The Doctor, still gripping John's shoulders, ignored the question. "Who do you trust the most right now?"

"I don't know-"

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Yes you do. Who do you respect and trust so much you're willing to put your life in their hands?"

The answer was obvious. "Sherlock, I guess."

The Doctor tapped him on the forehead. "Don't ever forget that." Then his eyes lost their look of sadness and he whirled around, placing the skull back on the mantlepiece. "Well, gotta run, places to be, things to do, people to save – you know the drill."

"Wait -" John started.

"It was _really_ nice meeting you, John Watson," the Doctor talked over him, grabbing his hand and pumping it up and down in a firm handshake. "Wish I could stay and chat, but I really must be off." He turned around and took off down the stairs, his shoes clattering on the wood.

John ran after him, his mind still plagued with unanswered questions. "Doctor!" he hollered as he reached the ground floor.

The Doctor, who was halfway out of the building by now, stopped and turned to look at him. "Yes?"

John opened his mouth. _What do you mean, "time-energy" stuff? What does your sonic screwdriver do? Why didn't you recognize this as the famous Sherlock's flat? What's a Time Lord? What's a Tartus? What am I not to lose hope in? _All that came out, though, was, "Who _are_ you?"

The Doctor grinned. "I'm the Doctor." And then he was gone.


End file.
